The Escape

There was a deafening banging at the weather-worn, decrepit, creaking door, but surprisingly instead of giving way, it shuddered into position once the impact subsided. A chorus of gruff voices could be heard giving sonorous commands to open the door. The harsh sound reverberated in the darkness of the night, chilling my shaking fingers into numbness, as my little girl, pale and wide-eyed,clutched me with her trembling hands. It was the year 1971, at the time of Bangladesh’s War of Liberation. The Pakistani’s Army was ruthless and merciless, killing destroying and devastating.The order had been passed that all intellectuals had to be listed and executed and my husband is a professor of the Rajshahi College was to be an unfortunate victim. My whole body was shaking like a forlorn leaf in a tornado, but courage had to be mustered for the sake of my little girl, and my trauma-stricken husband who had tried to escape the inevitable by hiding in barns and broken-down huts for the past few months. We went out of the back door, holding on to each other, trying not to disturb the pebbles, or pressing too hard on the drying straw. Slowly and patiently, we pierced through the darkness and made our way down the bank of the Padma.River

From a distance we could see the leaping tongues of fire, licking and gulping down inconspicuous thatched huts, devouring recklessly one after the other, in its never-appeasing voracious hunger. In a matter of minutes, the life-long savings of the very poor, the roof and shelter which their day-long, back-breaking labor had made possible, was reduced to ashes. From a distance, one could also hear the terror-stricken shrieks of the hapless women as they were mauled and molested by the brutal soldiers in uniform. The sound of running feet in the last- minute effort to frantically escape the clutches of the blood-thirsty beasts, resonated in the doom - foreboding night. But with my heart pounding like the beat of war drums, I held on to the thin threads of hope.

We trudged on like robots the entire night, our little girl crying inconsolably, with blisters on her feet, weak with hunger and almost lifeless with exhaustion. Eventually, she fell in a heap on the ground. My husband drained of all vigor, emaciated with the stress and strain of the past months, could not lift her up Every moment was explosive with intense tension, visualizing the horrifying outcome of detection, for then the dreaded fate was certain. Somehow or the other we were able to drag the girl behind a huge jutting boulder, three of us simply collapsed against its comforting expanse The rough edges of the stones and pebbles underneath, dug into our flesh like spikes, but we were oblivious of the fact, for panic and fear had gripped our very being into numb unawareness. Our throats were parched for want of water, but one could not give in to the uncontrollable, ever-mounting desire to take at least a small sip from the gushing, turbulent Padma River, as there had been an epidemic of cholera, accompanying and emanating from the horrific ruthless war.

  The traffic was sparse. Now and then one could see the powerful lights of the military trucks speeding down the worn-out, tarred road. Sometimes the soldiers would holler out as the vehicles rumbled by. Rarely a civilian motor car passed. My husband tried many times to stop them for a lift by waving his hands frantically, but all his efforts were in vain. I began to feel that we were destined and doomed to be butchered by the bestial wretches who were hovering on us like dragons in the panic-filled night. Occasionally we saw the red flickering light of the ambulances taking the cholera-stricken patients to the nearby hospitals, or groups of wailing men and women in Tempo Vans, transporting the dead for their last rites. The atmosphere all around was charged with terror- one felt that the air was being sucked out from one’s lungs by some unknown force, such was the fear. When the sky began to lighten up and a dim blue light could be seen, I rushed up to an approaching van. It was taking live poultry to the next town. I begged him for a lift but he declined. Then I implored with tears in my eyes and begged him to have pity on my five -year old daughter, who had collapsed on the way. Even men with an uncaring, hard exterior, may have a soft and a tender spot inside He at once agreed and that’s how we were able to board a fast-moving vehicle to the juncture where the Padma merges into River Meghna.

The brusque and burly driver instructed us in a business fashion to get into the back portion of the van. As we squeezed ourselves unceremoniously into the place assigned, the birds started cackling in fright, considering us to be unwelcome intruders. The journey itself was not a very pleasant one either.  Many times, we hit our heads against the body of the van as the vehicle screeched and squealed, bumping and jumping on the rough pothole dotted road. The stench of poultry droppings was overpowering. We were cramped in the little space offered to us. Once or twice the driver braked abruptly and we were thrown violently against the wicker basket of the birds with a cold sweat, anticipating detection at any moment. We thanked the driver profusely as we disembarked-indeed we were more than grateful!

We satiated our hunger by eating bread and banana bought from a local stall. Then we tried to figure out how to cover the rest of the journey. We had heard that if we made our way to the Bay of Bengal, all the international liners could be contacted. They would take us to some welcoming country, extending shelter to the hapless refugees. In order to get away, we had to reach the Port of Chittagong. Then we resumed our journey, not knowing how to get to the port of our destination. After hours of tedious, futile and demoralizing effort, we happened to come across a boatman who volunteered to take us to the sea. We were so relieved. But then he asked for an exorbitant sum of money which we did not have. The thin thread of hope snapped. We faced stark, grim reality with a heavy heart. The prospect of escaping seemed bleak, but at that very moment, in the flickering light of the boatman’s lamp, the gold bangles on my hand started to sparkle and gleam, like some beacons from the other world. I took them off and offered them to the not too friendly-a- boatman. He scrutinized them to judge the genuineness of the material like a short-sighted physician would an ailing patient. My heart gave a triple somersault, thinking that he might refuse. Then for an interminable moment, it stood still in anxious, impatient anticipation, like the non-functioning pendulum of a broken wall clock. Then eventually the boatman gave a satisfied nod and a gracious smile as a sign of approval. It was then that we set off, hoping for a brighter and happier future.

              The night was like any other night. Darkness had slowly descended-the birds had disappeared within the folds of the sheltering trees. The sky had turned from a metallic copper to a steel grey color. There was a sinister stillness in the air. From a distance, we could hear a strange bellowing sound. Then came a gust of wind, a blast and finally in a matter of minutes a typhoon unleashed its ferocity. Far away in the blinding blaze of lightning, we could see the trees in uncontrollable ecstasy, in an orgy of sheer pleasure, swaying from side to side in a frenzied drunken dance. The waves in the Meghna rose in fury. They jostled and buffeted each other, vying for prominence. At that time, we were in the middle of the wide expanse of water and our not too sturdy boat tossed and ducked in an effort to retain its bearings. But all was in vain. What we apprehended, took place. The boat turned on its side and we found ourselves in the whirling water being sucked into the depths. It seemed we were destined to give up our last breath in the arms of our beloved motherland. The boatman managed to grab hold of the little girl and ordered us peremptorily not to let go of the boat. We did as he told us to do, but found it extremely difficult because of the force of the swirling currents. But as providence would have it, at that time a Rocket Steamer or a Paddle Wheel Boat happened to pass by and pulled us on board. Drenched and shaken up, greatly traumatized, we sat huddled together, the proximity and touch of each other’s body is a source of comfort. Then the captain asked us to change into dry clothes and gave us a set of clean, crisp garments. We were indeed very grateful to him as our sodden clothes were sticking to our bodies like irritating blisters. After that, he requested us to have some invigorating refreshments as all our energy had sapped and he did not want a medical emergency.

All along we were being rocked and rolled about from side to side as if we were in an infant’s cradle when the waves dashed and lashed against the sides of the boat. At last we managed to reach Chittagong after going through varied experiences and vicissitudes of fortune. But we had a feeling of satisfaction because we had faced the hardships resolutely and knew that we had come out successful.

At last, Fate smiled at us and we were lucky to come into contact with the Captain of a Cruise Liner going to Australia. He agreed to take us on if we assisted him on the deck as a cleaner or in the kitchen as a cook. When we agreed, he gave us permission to board his ship and we started on our voyage across the ocean, a dream come true!                                                                                         

Most of the passengers were sympathetic and kind. They heard our story of gruesome cruelty, the unforgivable lust of fellow human beings and their hearts melted in pity and empathy. They extended their ever-generous hand of friendship. With their much-needed constructive guidance, we were able to get refugee status in Australia. That is how we started our lives in Victoria. It was in the distant past. The lingering memories of those days are like a golden web, though now a bit blurred and hazy, never-the-less acutely nostalgic, wonderful to recall and cherish, never to forget!